


#ReadyAimFire

by JBMcDragon



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Laura Barton, BAMF Steve Rogers, Knotting, M/M, Multi, Omega Clint Barton, PWP, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Safe Sane and Consensual, Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, they are all BAMFs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 11:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBMcDragon/pseuds/JBMcDragon
Summary: Everyone knows omegas can be dangerous. Once a cycle, in fact, when heat whispers at them to pick a fight and find the strongest alphas around to breed with. Stuck in Wakanda, a refugee from the USA and WSC, without access to the suppressants he's been using for years, Clint is a living, breathing weapon... who is far too dangerous to go around picking fights. While Clint's idea -- getting himself thrown in jail through his heat -- is stupid (what cell could hold him?), Laura's idea -- to send Steve to retrieve him -- is brilliant. Good thing Steve's up for it.Or,An excuse for a lot of ABO sex. I mean, a lot. No regrets.





	#ReadyAimFire

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my thought: in nature, the female decides on her own mate. The males run around trying to impress her and fighting with each other to drive away the competition. A male dog who tries to breed an unwilling female gets a lot of teeth. A stallion gets back hooves kicking out his bits. Why would an omega be any different?
> 
> This has been hanging out on my hard drive forever. I finally beat it with an editing club, and I'm posting it before I think twice. Set after CA: Civil War.
> 
> Shameless pimp: I write books! Check them out on Amazon under JB McDonald.
> 
> Finally: kudos are awesome! Comments are AMAZING.

It wasn't in Steve's nature to eavesdrop, but ever since the serum he couldn't help it. 

He hummed, a lot. Under his breath, attempting to be unobtrusive, when someone clearly thought they were out of earshot. It wasn't that he had super hearing any more than he had super vision, but his vision was now 5/20, far better than the "perfect" 20/20. Not outside of the realm of possibility for a person, but definitely out of the realm of probability. His hearing was similarly good, so when Clint got into a tense conversation with his wife over the phone, Steve turned the television on and hummed for all he was worth. He’d have gone to a different area altogether, but the house T’Challa had put them in wasn’t really big enough to make it worthwhile.

The TV didn't stop him from hearing bits of the conversation, despite the fact that Clint was outside in the garden and the door was closed between them. "I'll be fine. I don't know, but–" A long pause, then, "Well, yes." Another pause. Exasperated, "Laura–"

Steve hadn't ever heard Clint get irritated with his wife, much less sound like that. He glanced out the glass doors to see the lean, tense line of Clint’s body, jaw clenched, glaring at the distant jungle. Steve quickly returned his attention to the television. It wasn't any of his business. 

He imagined it couldn't be easy, being Clint. Clint was the only Avenger-refugee who’d left behind family. He couldn't leave Wakanda, and the WSC had Laura and his kids under surveillance: they couldn't leave the States. It was the only hold the WSC had on any of the refugees, and they weren't giving it up. 

Clint came stalking into the house, tossing his phone at Steve. Steve caught it automatically. "General wants you," Clint bit out, and kept moving down the hall, toward the front of the house. "You have two minutes until they track it here!" he shouted back. Seven minutes a day. That was what Clint got with his family, now.

Steve lifted the phone cautiously to his ear. "Hello?" 

Laura didn't bother with pleasantries. "Clint is out of suppressants. T'Challa's people are working on it, but the patent is held by the US registry, who've been ordered not to release it anywhere."

Steve struggled to catch up. "What sort of suppressant?" he asked. The front door of the house opened and slammed closed.

"Heat suppressants."

Steve didn’t know what question to ask next. Only omegas went into heat, and omegas, hard wired to aggression in order to find the strongest mate, weren’t allowed to do field work. 

As if she could hear his confusion all those tens of thousands of miles away, Laura said sharply, “Clint is an omega, and he’s going into heat.” 

Thoughts raced through Steve’s head all at once. Clint couldn’t be an omega: he was a walking weapon, and training someone who was going to become aggressive every cycle would be the height of irresponsibility. If Clint was an omega, he needed suppressants, which they had here. Plan A: clarify with Clint. Plan B: get suppressants. 

Clint had stormed out, but the second plan Steve could hang onto. He shook his head, clearing it of what didn’t make sense so he could solve the problem. "They have suppressants here. I've seen–"

"They're all ethelmine based," Laura interrupted. "Clint can't take ethelmine. God _damn_ it," she said under her breath. Then, louder, "Steve, Clint is going to do something stupid. You have to help him. _Any way necessary._ You can't let him – Christ. You can't–"

"I'll take care of it," Steve interrupted. His mind was still spinning, but he was sure about that much. He'd brought Clint into this political mess, and he’d never leave one of his men hanging. 

"Go," Laura said. "Now!" 

He hung up the phone and, spurred on by the urgency in her voice, rushed after Clint. He got to the front door and paused, door open, looking around. 

The Wakadans were a beautiful people, but right then Steve was mostly just glad they were black. It made finding the one white man he was looking for that much easier. 

The city sprawled out around their house, with the jungle-covered cliffs beyond providing shelter. Clint was just vanishing around a corner, his body tense and his fingers tightening into fists before relaxing and repeating it. 

Steve broke into a quick walk, then a jog. 

When Steve reached the corner and turned, Clint was gone. A row of shops and restaurants faced him instead, most of them open to the air with fake thatching – for an authentic look – over large patios. Steve jogged down the street, looking into each open-air front. He saw Clint standing at a bar with his hands braced on the counter. Two men had moved close to him, one with a hand hovering just over the small of Clint's back. Steve could tell just by looking at how rigid Clint's muscles were under his thin shirt that touching him would be a very bad move, omega or not.

Quick, long strides took Steve inside before that possibly fatal error could be made. "Brothers and sisters," he said in Wakandan, one of the few bits of the language he'd learned. Languages had never been his strong suit. 

As he crossed the room, he took a breath. His heart rate plucked into fight-or-flight readiness. One of the men glanced at him and retreated. The one with his hand hovering over Clint paused. He said something to Steve that Steve didn't quite understand, except for "help" and the contradictory tone of challenge. 

Before Steve could think how to defuse the situation, Clint's elbow shot out and nailed the man in the nose. The man staggered back without ever touching Clint, clutching his face and howling. Around them, people scrambled away. Clint's gaze never twitched off the drink the bartender was pouring.

Softly, the bartender said something, eyes cutting toward Steve as he pushed the shot glass toward Clint.

Clint picked it up and tossed it back.

"I'm sorry," Steve said to the bartender in English. "I don’t really speak Wakandan." He approached Clint slowly, not quite sure what he was expecting. The urgency Laura had instilled had nowhere to go. Clint wasn’t outright attacking people – mostly – and didn’t look to be in crisis. Or, really, wanting attention at all. Anger crackled off him, but everyone got angry.

Steve _must_ have misheard. Omegas were too dangerous to turn into weapons.

Clint bit a translation out. "He wants to know if I'm yours. Am I, Steve? Yours?" It was laced with venom. Clint set the glass down with an audible click and gestured to it. Hesitantly, the bartender filled it again.

Steve edged closer. "I imagine that if anyone can claim you other than yourself, that would be Laura," he said with studied nonchalance. He leaned against the counter, pretending relaxation and wishing he had half of Natasha’s skill. 

Clint didn’t say anything.

Steve fished for words, for a way to parse the awkward silence into more manageable bits. Finally, he went with a forward strike to clear up the confusion. "Laura said you’re an omega."

Clint downed the next shot and gestured for another. His shoulders flexed. His hands curled and relaxed. "What of it?" he growled.

That brought Steve up short. This was no faux-innocent Clint playing a practical joke, or an angry Clint with a shot at how Steve could be so gullible. 

Steve glanced around the little bar, searching for answers. Some people were paying their tabs and leaving. A few others had settled in and were watching him and Clint openly. One woman was talking on a cell phone, eyes on them. Probably, Steve thought, calling the police. 

"If you are," Steve said calmly, "we should get you out of here. I think you're about to be arrested."

"Good," Clint muttered.

Not the response he expected. Steve looked at Clint thoughtfully. Clint didn’t return it, hunched over the bar and glaring at the multi-colored bottles on the far wall. 

Steve firmly set aside his incredulity that SHIELD would have trained an omega into a weapon. If Clint was an omega, and Clint was one of his men, and Laura had trusted Steve, then Steve had some challenges to handle. _That_ was what mattered at this moment.

Clint didn’t look overly upset at the thought of being arrested. "You want to bet they'll put you in a cell on your own, and leave you there through your heat?" Steve asked.

From the studious lack of response, he knew he'd hit on Clint's plan. He resisted the urge to lean closer, to inhale the scents that were so potently Clint – gun metal and grease and resin – and instead kept his tone conversational. "You think they'd let you scream through the worst of it, rather than gathering a few doctors or alphas to try and help? You might kill them.”

Clint glared at the bottles, callused fingers resting delicately on his shot glass. Steve could see the sweat that beaded up at Clint’s temples, dampening his hairline.

After a moment, when he was sure Clint wasn’t going to acknowledge his existence, Steve relaxed a little more and continued. “But say they did leave you alone. Do you really think they have a cell that can hold you, if some drunkard nearby pissed you off?"

Clint stopped with his drink half way to his mouth. "Shit," he muttered, and set the drink down. 

“Talk to me,” Steve murmured, lowering his eyes in the hopes it would make this conversation easier.

Instead, Clint scraped his chair back and stood, cutting his gaze around the bar. He glared at the woman on the phone. 

Good enough. Steve fished out his wallet and dropped enough bills to cover the drinks – he hoped – then reached to take Clint's elbow and escort him from the bar.

Clint yanked his arm back, snarling over his shoulder, then stalked out and toward the house.

"Sorry," Steve said to the patrons they'd bothered. The man whose nose Clint had no doubt broken wasn't in sight. "If he comes back," Steve said, figuring they'd know who 'he' was, "tell him to send his medical bills to the palace."

There was a new murmuring at that, some raised eyebrows. Clearly they spoke that much English. Steve went after Clint. 

It was obvious Clint didn’t want to talk. Steve tried to keep quiet, his thoughts in turmoil now that the first blush of crisis was past. They were nearly to the house before Steve spoke again. "So, you _are_ an omega?"

Clint grunted. 

It was as much of an affirmative as Steve supposed he was going to get. He chewed on his confusion, mentally reviewing laws since he’d woken up. He was sure they had tightened down, that there was even one about omegas not learning so much as self defense after the slew of heat-inducted manslaughter that had happened in the fifties. Steve couldn’t stop another question. "How is that possible?"

"Don't you mean, how is it possible I'm Hawkeye?" Clint shot back.

Steve had to nod. That was exactly what he meant. 

"Trickshot was an alpha," Clint muttered. He yanked open the front door violently. "He kept me in line until he couldn't. By then I was at SHIELD." He stormed through the house, head swinging at each open doorway they passed. "Anyone here?" he shouted.

No one answered. Steve wished for Natasha. Or Sam. Hell, any backup would be good. He wondered if he could call Laura again, but it wouldn’t be safe for twenty-four hours.

Clint stopped in the great room, eyes skimming couches and the open kitchen. No one was there, either. "Then I met Laura." 

He tried to imagine Clint snarling and shoving, and Laura pinning him into submission. Granted, he’d only seen Laura when she was pregnant, but even still. "Laura couldn't have overpowered you," he pointed out.

Now came that look, the one that told Steve he’d said something era-inappropriate. 

“Lots of ways around that these days, Cap. One is called bondage.” 

Steve wondered if they would ever stop expecting him to blanch. Bondage made sense to him. If you loved someone, you found a way. That was just how it was done.

Clint deflated. He rubbed his face, then collapsed onto the couch, elbows on his knees, hands hiding his eyes. "I only came off suppressants occasionally," he muttered. "Just often enough to stay healthy. We had–" He stopped, took a deep breath, looked up and around again. He didn't look at Steve, who sat down slowly on a nearby arm chair. Clint seemed to brace himself, and continued. "We had shackles in the barn. If I knew it was coming..." He shrugged. Then his jaw tightened and he glared at Steve. "I'm not letting anyone else shackle me." 

Steve shook his head, no. 

Clint ducked again, wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck so his face was hidden. "Maybe T'Challa has a secure room somewhere. He must, right?" 

Steve said nothing. He doubted any room outside the Raft was secure enough to hold Clint, but Clint was smart enough to come to that conclusion.

 _Any way possible._ Laura had come to that conclusion, as well. She might not have known Steve was an alpha, but everyone knew he was stronger than normal people. Strong enough to keep someone safe, even against their own will. 

"When does your heat start?" Steve asked quietly.

Clint let out a laugh that was almost a cry. "Any time now."

Hormones explained the desperation and anger. Explained Clint not thinking clearly; supposing a cell could hold him. Steve spoke. “I can keep you contained, if that’s what you need.” 

It wasn’t uncommon for an omega to bed an alpha who wasn’t their spouse, if they were apart. He thought of Laura and was sure he knew the answer, but asked the question anyway. "Or we can find you an alpha. How would Laura feel about–"

"It's not Laura who would object," Clint snapped, hands breaking apart as he glared at Steve. "It's me. Who do you think could take me down far enough for me to give in? I’d hurt or kill anyone who tried. Do you know someone who can do that and still fuck? Fucking through it without a full submission is a great option, but who would want to? Who could?" He surged to his feet, pacing. Steve could almost smell the frustration and anger radiating off him; honest emotion, but fueled by the aggression of incoming heat. "It's not worth the risk. Jesus, before Laura, before SHIELD, it took four guys and drugs, and I still gave them all bruises and broke one of their arms before I let them fuck me through it!" He turned, pinning Steve with a furious look. “And that was my God-damned idea!”

Steve saw it just before it happened. Saw Clint reach the wall. Saw him draw his arm back. Saw fingers curl into a fist, and then smash forward. Before he’d even thought about it, Steve lunged forward and clamped his hand hard around Clint’s bicep. Momentum carried Clint’s fist another few centimeters. Tendon and bone flexed against him. Steve braced, held, grip unforgiving. 

Clint’s free arm drew back a split second before he jabbed at Steve's throat.

Steve caught that hand, too, and held them tight while Clint tried to jerk away. Steve expected it to devolve into a real struggle, but it only lasted a few moments before Clint restrained himself. His eyes cleared and he looked at Steve. 

_Any way possible_ , Laura had said. No one was strong enough, Clint had said. Steve just waited. 

Clint glared at Steve. Then Clint _looked_ at Steve. Steve opened his fingers and freed Clint.

Clint stepped back. His gaze skimmed down Steve’s body and back up again. He rubbed his wrists. Steve had kept his grip gentle; he knew he hadn’t hurt Clint. Clint wetted his lips, and if Steve didn’t know better, he’d say Clint was nervous. Clint wouldn’t have been the only one. “You’re an alpha,” Clint said almost accusingly. “The serum, right?”

Steve gave half a shrug, holding Clint’s gaze. “I was before. It helped.” He paused, then added, “I can definitely take you.” It was an offer, not a threat. “I can fuck you through it, I can drop you down, or I can just make sure you don’t go cruising.”

“Any way, I’d be hell bent on killing you,” Clint pointed out. His tone was serious, all Agent Barton and no Hawkeye. 

Steve didn’t laugh. Even with his increased speed, stamina, and strength, Clint could be a threat. That didn’t mean he was going to let Clint see anything but confidence. He spread his hands. "Try away." 

"I could dislocate your joints–"

Steve cut him off. "If I let you get that far." 

Clint looked toward the windows. He was still rubbing his wrist. 

"If you want me to stay out of it," Steve said, "I will. We'll find another way to handle things, or I can talk to T’Challa about a secure room. But regardless, if you want help, I’m all yours.” 

Clint snorted. Maybe that hadn’t come out quite right. Before Steve could do more than furrow his brow trying to re-state himself, though, Clint started talking. “It’s a week and a half of me being a complete and total dickwad.”

Steve put on his media-innocent face. “Like when you’re injured?” It broke the tension as he’d hoped it would. Clint punched him, and he took it in the shoulder with a grin. “You’re not the first omega under my command to decide fuck the regs and enlist anyway.”

Clint made a face.

“You voted on me being in command,” Steve pointed out automatically.

As automatically, Clint shot back, “Only to keep Stark out of power.” 

Except it wasn’t as funny as before. Neither of them continued the old routine. 

Clint rubbed a mark from his boot onto the polished wood floors. No, the Wakandans were too protective of their jungle to build wood floors in residences, so it had to be some kind of wood substitute. Steve studied it, waiting for Clint to break the silence.

Clint cleared his throat. “Three or four days, if... you know.” 

Steve looked at him. The back of Clint’s neck was ruddy. His thumbs were hooked in his pockets, as if everything was casual. The tension in his shoulders practically vibrated.

“If you and Laura would be all right with it, I’d be happy to–” How did you finish that sentence in this era? ‘Take care of you,’ would have been appropriate back when. Were people blunt enough to just say, ‘fuck you like crazy’ or ‘knot you’?

Steve tried again. “I can sure as hell handle you, Clint, if you’d like to match up for your heat. We'll get you through, you'll have a back up plan if this ever happens again, and it's no skin off my nose." It wasn't like people hadn't matched up just for heats before. Frequently, even.

Clint melted back into an armchair and put his hands over his face. "Fuck me," he muttered in an undertone.

Steve laughed, but even he thought it sounded lost. "Only if you want." 

Clint dropped his hands to the arm of the chair and flopped back, head resting on the top cushion. "I don't submit easily," he said to the ceiling.

"I wouldn't expect so," Steve countered. Was that a yes to sex? Or just a warning?

Clint stared at the ceiling for a while longer. Steve couldn't tell what he was thinking. His face was a mask, as expressionless as when he was on a job. Then Clint nodded, as if to himself. "Could be any time," he said, looking at Steve finally. There was a grim set to his mouth that made Steve want to frown in return. Heats should never make someone look so tense, and it made him sad that Clint's did. “Fucking through it would work,” Clint said at last. “If you’re...” he trailed off. “Willing?” There was a confused twist to his face.

“Willing,” Steve agreed. But that sounded so... noble. Sex and heats shouldn’t really be about self-sacrifice. So he spread his hands and spoke again. “Honestly, I don’t know if it’s appropriate to be excited,” he said ruefully. “But let’s just say I’m not upset at the prospect of three days of great sex.”

It pulled the laugh out of Clint he’d been hoping for.

“I assume it’d be better if you actually–”

“Go all melty gooey?” Clint cut in with a wry smile. “Sure, but it’s not likely.”

Fucking through a heat was better than nothing – rough sex that was half fight that both parties enjoyed – but actually getting an omega to let go was even better. “If I can get you to go all melty gooey...?” He smiled, lopsided, at Clint’s phrasing.

Clint snorted. “By all means.” 

**

Clint paced back and forth in his bedroom suite, an exact replica of all the other bedroom suites in the house. Everyone had their own bedroom, large enough to contain a small sitting area where the door was, and their own bathroom. The furniture was first class, nicer than anything Clint had ever owned. At least until Laura. 

The other Avenger refugees were coming and going in the house. He'd left a note on the counter for everyone. "Going into heat. Steve's with me. Don't bug us." Steve had lifted his eyebrows at it, but Clint just shrugged. He'd answer questions later. He'd have preferred somewhere isolated, but he didn't think it was fair to kick everyone out of the only home any of them currently had. 

He and Steve had already gone over consent issues. No restraints; Steve wasn’t Laura. _If_ Steve got him to a point of actual omega submission instead of just fucking – he doubted it, most often with anyone but Laura the fucking relieved the heat enough, but little got him past his working mind – nothing he'd be humiliated about later. No piss or shit games. (That had brought a horrified look to Steve's expression, which was quickly wiped away.) No blood sport. At that, Steve had just shaken his head and held up a hand, then blathered how he wasn't into humiliation or pain or really anything on the fringe, and he hoped that was all right with Clint.

Of course that was all right with Clint. Clint had dealt with fringe events outside of sex entirely too often to enjoy them inside of sex.

And now here he was, pacing the bedroom, feeling the itch under his skin turn into agitation. Should he have added no drugs? He hadn't, because if Steve needed them to subdue him after all, he'd thought he would allow it. But would he allow it? Fuck that. No one was doing anything to him. His heart pounded. He could feel it throbbing in his ass, and knew the heat was billowing. 

Fuck Steve. Fuck Steve and fuck heats. He could get through this alone. 

There was a soft knock at the door to his room, and a moment later it opened. Steve was carrying two duffel bags, one over each broad, heavily muscled shoulder. "I got food and water bottles, and a change of clothes–" he stopped and looked up, gaze finding Clint unerringly. His eyes narrowed; the battlefield assessment he used whenever someone was injured. Or lying. “How are you doing?” 

The caution rankled. Clint looked him up and down with blatant disdain. Broad feet in flip flops, blond hair almost invisible over bulging calves, khaki shorts not quite hiding the swell of thigh muscle. Lean hips, narrow waist, and his stupid chest and shoulders, half again as broad as Clint’s. Clint was the one with the bow and arrows, damn it, and Steve was the one who _looked_ like an archer.

If Steve thought he was just going to simper and back down, Steve had another think coming. God, his blood itched. “I need to get out of here,” he nearly growled, and marched toward Steve and the door behind him.

Steve shrugged off both duffel bags, stepping into his path with one hand up. “That’s the heat talking.”

He was right, and Clint knew it. It didn’t stop Clint from puffing up at the challenge, despite there not being a challenging muscle on Steve’s body. He ground his teeth together and wheeled away. “Yeah,” he bit out. He didn’t want to agree, but that was instinct. Instinct said to strut and pick fights and provoke and _hit back_. It was a stupid instinct, and damn it, his rational mind was better than that. He blew a breath through pursed lips, trying hard to release the desire to snipe at Steve. He shook his hands out, listening as Steve picked up the bags again, tense for any sign that Steve was going to pull some alpha shit and pick a fight right back. 

Instead, Steve moved the bags into the bedroom and came back out.

“So,” Steve began casually. "How are you feeling?"

Clint's muscles relaxed in preparation to move, even as tension thrummed through him. "Fine." He bit out the word.

"Okay," Steve said and then, instead of the lunge Clint had half expected, he cracked the lid on the water bottle he was holding. He tossed it to Clint, who caught it easily, then went back into the bedroom and came out with a second one. At which point, he sat down on the floor, right there in the doorway between the bedroom and sitting room.

"What are you doing?" Clint demanded.

"Drinking some water," Steve said calmly, and did as he'd said. Muscles flexed under the tight white t-shirt he was wearing, but not in a threatening way. He’d kicked off his flip flops; his feet were bare.

Slowly, Clint's tension eased. He shook out his arms, bottle of water still in one hand, and rolled his neck. He paced along the windows. 

"Better?" Steve asked.

"Mm," Clint said. He felt a little more clear headed. A little less aggressive. He glanced back at Steve to see him still sitting on the floor, one leg propped up. He didn't look so big. Clint could take him. The thought had no impulse behind it, though. 

"When I was a boy," Steve said, "my father talked about an omega he knew in World War I. This was before omegas were banned from the army, of course."

"Mm," Clint said again, half listening. He twisted the cap off the water bottle, then put it back on, untouched. His hair itched. He rolled his wrists. 

"I guess the guy was a gunner, and hid himself behind a gunpost just before his heat started."

Clint blanched and looked at Steve.

"Yeah," Steve said, "it was as bad as you could imagine. When a few alphas came for him, he gunned them down. Then anyone else who came near. I guess three people died, and five more were injured."

"Jesus," Clint breathed. Maybe, when people had still lived in tribes, it had helped that omegas would only let those who could subdue them breed them, creating the strongest possible. But now – well, with today's technology, the omega aggression at the start of their heats had gotten downright dangerous. 

"I'm infertile," Clint said to the window. He glanced at Steve, a little embarrassed. The kids had all come from Laura's pregnancies. "In case you were wondering."

Steve nodded, taking in the information. "I can't get or give STDs." 

Clint forced a smile and spread his hands. "Great, bareback!" he chirped with false joy, then turned to look out the window again. The skin between his shoulder blades crawled as he waited for Steve to come for him. He clenched his hands. God, he wanted to hit something. 

"How'd you convince SHIELD to train you?" Steve asked.

The itch in his skin was turning into a burn. He rubbed at his chest. "Trickshot trained me to shoot," he said. "I learned fighting on the side. When SHIELD got to me, I signed something saying I'd stay on suppressants and agreed not to attend their hand-to-hand combat training. Then I met Nat, and they couldn't stop her from teaching me combat, and she didn't care that I was an omega, so..."

Steve nodded. Clint could see the motion out of the corner of his eye.

Clint moved his hand from his chest to his neck, rubbing the skin and muscles there.

"You think I can move?" Steve asked.

Clint's heart rate jumped. "Why?" he snapped before he could think it through. Then he shook his head to clear it. "Of course." He couldn’t quite stop the irritability, but it was hard to stay downright pissed when Steve was being so... so... _neutral_. It wasn’t like an alpha at all.

With a smile, Steve stood and walked into the bedroom area. It felt more intimate almost immediately, and Clint wasn’t even in there. Clint felt himself bristling, and fought to shut it down. He'd _told_ Steve yes. 

But what the hell was Steve doing, alone, in Clint’s bedroom? Who the hell asked if they could move? Of all the stupid questions. Like he was going to bad Steve from using the toilet. He wasn't going to let Steve near him. He wasn't going to let anyone near him. 

But he stalked to the bedroom anyway, standing in the doorway and scowling at Steve.

Steve sat on the end of the bed. Clint remained standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?” he asked accusingly. But that wasn’t fair. He knew what Steve was doing – he’d agreed to it. He shook his head to negate the question and said in grudging apology, "This is the worst part. With Laura, too. I know I said yes, but..."

"It's just the heat, Clint," Steve soothed. 

Even that pissed him off. His muscles twitched. He paced restlessly, two steps forward and back. "I know," he growled. Then, shouting, "I know! So do it already! Jump my fucking bones!" He bared his teeth in a feral snarl, muscles bunching, ready to fight.

Steve didn't respond with fight, though. He sipped his water bottle again. "It's okay," he said when he'd swallowed. "We have time." 

**

Clint rolled his eyes and stalked to the window. Steve watched him pace, watched the way sweat soaked through the tank top he was wearing. He wondered if Clint knew how alluring the tank was. How it bared his muscular arms and shoulders. Had he done it consciously or subconsciously? It certainly showed him to advantage. The basketball shorts, Steve knew, were a conscious decision. Clothing that was easily removed. 

Clint growled at something only he knew of, then ran his hands through his hair. He tugged on it, then continued to his neck, squeezing as if he could press the knots out. 

He didn't have knots, Steve would bet. The hormones flooding his system would have his muscles loose and supple, ready to fight or stretch as needed. 

Steve took another sip of his water, using the cold liquid to anchor himself. He breathed deeply, pulling each lungful of air into his belly, forcing himself to stay calm. Clint was far from the first omega he'd helped through a heat, and he'd learned some things. Omegas fought less if they were attracted to the person. If there was trust. He thought he and Clint had that, and he'd worn his tightest shirt, fresh out of the dryer, to help with the attraction. Studies done since he'd been iced also suggested that an omega who lost fights and confrontations in everyday life would give up faster than an omega who'd won. Steve was pretty sure that Clint won every confrontation he'd ever been in. Steve didn't expect this to go easy. It was worth taking the extra time to let Clint settle. None of which made him any less agitated himself.

It was better for alphas. Alphas needed to back down when an omega threw them off or when they were outfought by another alpha. Alphas had to know when to quit without killing each other or the next person that walked up. It didn't change the fact that he was hard in his khakis, or that what he really wanted to do was go pin Clint to the damned wall and hold him there until he went still. 

But then, Steve had won nearly every confrontation he’d ever been in, too. It made him confident of the outcome, deep in his hind brain. Made it easier to wait and be patient.

Clint groaned with frustration and swung his arms in circles. He slapped the window, cursing under his breath.

Steve broke in before the violence escalated. "There's this idea that you have to rush these things," he said conversationally. "But I've found that taking it easy takes some of the fight out of it."

Clint glared at him. Sweat had damped his hair at his temples. His pupils were engorged. "You think I'm not gonna fight you?"

He wanted to surge upward and show Clint that a fight was futile. He took a breath. "I think it'll be easier for you to submit," Steve corrected, "if you're already used to my presence as something calming." 

Clint stared at him, eyes narrowing. His grip on the water bottle, uncapped but undrunk, tightened. Then he threw it, fast and with perfect aim. Only Steve's reflexes made him dodge in time. It hit the far wall and the top popped off. It started glugging out. Steve reined in his desire to respond with aggression, and instead forced himself to stand up and retrieve it. He set it on the nightstand and walked toward the bathroom, ensuring his strides were even. 

"You're not drugging me!" Clint shouted behind him.

 _Jesus Christ_. But of course it wasn’t unheard of, especially in the days when omegas had easy access to hunting rifles and swords. Clint was a sword. Steve tried to take the statement in stride – or at least seem to. He pulled a towel off the rack, then walked back into the bedroom with a small frown. "No," he agreed, tossing the towel on the wet carpet and standing on it to absorb the water. "I'm not drugging you." He glanced at Clint carefully, from under his lashes.

Clint stalked to the duffel and got out his own bottle of water. He checked it thoroughly, slanting suspicious looks at Steve. Anger bubbled in Steve's chest. He took another deep breath, reminding himself that Clint was probably feeling paranoid. 

Then Clint shook himself, opened the bottle, and drank all in one fluid, unhappy motion. It seemed to ease something inside him. He leaned his forehead against the wall, eyes closed. He looked... small. Tired. Those incredibly well muscled shoulders sank inward, and he deflated. "Sorry, Steve," he murmured. There was still an edge to his voice, but Clint was there again. Not raging with hormones, but for a moment just there. 

"No problem," Steve said.

"Are you sure you don't just want to jump me and get this over with?" Clint asked.

Steve was positive Clint had meant to sound funny, but instead he just sounded unhappy. Because he didn't want to be an omega? Because Laura wasn't here? Because he was still, absurdly, afraid of hurting Steve? "I'm sure," Steve answered. He searched for another topic. "Who was Trickshot? You've mentioned him twice now."

Clint rolled along the wall until he was facing Steve. "My mentor in the circus." He rubbed his stomach and grimaced, eyes closing. 

The agitation in Steve's body poured into the desire to protect. A whisper in the back of his mind that the omega was vulnerable now urged him closer. He wanted to wrap Clint up and at the same time, wanted to fuck him senseless. 

"Easy," Steve nearly purred. Clint's eyes stayed closed. His breathing was shallow, Steve could see that as he neared. Clint’s lips were parted just slightly. His skin was damp, and smelled of sex.

Carefully, Steve touched him. Just a hand on his shoulder, but it felt amazing. His cock hardened further, and then again when, instead of fighting, a small whine eased out of Clint's throat. Clint closed his mouth and swallowed, but the heat it sent through Steve was already there. 

"Good," Steve praised, and leaned closer, hesitating for just an instant as he studied Clint's face. The pale blue of veins on his eyelids, the short stubs of his lashes, a five o' clock shadow that deepened the smile and squint lines around his eyes. 

Steve bent a little closer, brushing lips across lips. Clint's mouth parted with a quick inhalation, eyes still closed. Another little noise. Steve did it again, keeping the touches whisper-light. He didn't want to break the spell. He moved until he sheltered Clint against the wall, increasing the pressure on his mouth ever so slightly. Patience, he reminded himself. Patience. 

Clint leaned into Steve's hand on his shoulder. Tipped his head up, just slightly. "Good," Steve said, but it was only a breath across Clint's jaw. He wanted to growl possessively, but banked the desire. He put his free hand on Clint's waist. 

It broke the spell. With a snarl Clint jabbed at Steve's gut, ducking under the arm on his shoulder and grabbing Steve's wrist, twisting to get it behind Steve's back and dislocate–

Except that Steve moved with him, not bothering to duck the jab, catching Clint by the hair. It was the only way Steve could think to stop him without bruising, and he didn't really want his arm dislocated. Clint let go and twisted, and Steve released Clint’s hair before it pulled.

Just like that Clint was free and staggering into the center of the bedroom. He breathed hard, eyes wild and stance low, ready. 

Adrenaline beat through Steve's body. His hands trembled with the desire to engage in the fight, so he crossed them over his chest. He wouldn't grab Clint. He wouldn't. They needed time, and he was going to give it to them. 

He kept his eyes half lidded in a lazy sort of certainty. "I'm going to take you, Clint," he said, and it was a promise. He'd see Clint through this. Clint wouldn't hurt him. He'd make it better. 

**

Clint lingered near the windows. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to punch that look of assurance right off Steve's pretty face. 

Damn it, no one should be allowed to be that pretty.

He paced instead. He swung his arms. He stretched them. He rolled his neck. He rolled his shoulders. Why did anyone ever think heat was about fucking? It was about _fighting_. He gave a few little hops, eying Steve. "Come on," he said, beckoning.

"I don't think so."

"Come on!" he yelled, gesturing again. 

"Have a drink of water," Steve suggested, still so _calm_. 

"Shit," Clint muttered, and snatched a new water bottle out of the duffel bag. He crouched, drank, dropped his head between his knees. Steve wasn't going to fight him. "Steve," he started, but didn't know how to continue.

"Want something to eat?"

Eat. Kitchen. Clint sprung to his feet. "Who's home? Who's here? Sam, he's an alpha, isn't he?"

"No one is coming through that door," Steve said firmly.

Clint snarled and went for the bedroom door. He'd _find_ those alphas. He'd fucking _kick their asses_ –

Steve, closer to it, slammed the door closed and leaned against it. 

Clint screamed in his face and threw a punch. Or tried to, except that Steve caught his fist. He yanked back, but Steve refused to let go.

"Shh," Steve said, his body language relaxed. "Easy, Clint. You hear me? Easy."

Clint yanked away. He paced toward the bed. Right. Right. Easy. He swallowed hard. "I wanna hit something," he muttered. 

He could sense Steve walking up. The skin on his back prickled something fierce. He told himself not to turn around. To wait. To see what Steve was thinking. And then if Steve tried anything, he'd flip the bigger man over his goddamned shoulder–

Steve stopped so close they were sharing body heat. "Take a breath," Steve murmured. The words were like a soft cloth over the worst bruises. 

Clint took a breath. He wanted to lean back into that warmth, into that strong body. He felt himself sway, but when he touched Steve he straightened up again. 

Steve's hand lifted. Brushed so lightly along his hair that it was more like a breeze than a person. "It's going to be okay," Steve said. 

"I know that," Clint muttered. "S'not my first heat." 

A gentle huff of laughter. "No, I know that." The fingertips brushed his scalp this time, and he let his eyes fall closed. This wasn't a fight. Why wasn't it a fight? 

He felt Steve's breath above his ear, dancing along the shell. He shivered. 

"It's going to be good," Steve murmured. "It doesn't have to be a fight."

That was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. "It does, too," he snapped, and turned within the prison of Steve's body, dropping to land a crotch-shot.

Steve grabbed him before he could, hauled him up off his feet, took two steps toward the wall while Clint kicked at him, and turned him again. Clint slammed into the wall face-first and tried to rebound against it only to find that Steve had him pinned. He tried to push off, but it was useless. One of Steve's hands pressed hard against his mid-back, the other slid down under his shorts.

Fucking useless basketball shorts. He might as well have been naked! 

He let himself melt against the wall. His breathing hitched. His hands scrabbled. 

"Shhh," Steve whispered against his ear. "Shhh, there. That's it, Clint. Just let go. Let go."

He whined. 

"Yeah," Steve said, and picked him up with an arm around his waist, turning and carrying him the few steps to the bed. 

The second Steve dropped him on the bed, he rolled and bolted upward, grabbing his kindle off the nightstand because it was the only weapon to hand–

Steve just grabbed him again, took away the tablet, pinned his wrists to the mattress above his head and _laid_ on him to keep him from kicking. 

"Jesus, Clint," Steve laughed. "What does it take to get you to submit?"

"Fuck you," Clint bit out, still trying to find any leverage at all. 

Steve grunted when one of Clint's knees hit him in the ribs. "But, come on. There's fucking you through it, which I know we'd both enjoy, and there's getting you to let go. How do I get you to let go?" 

"I'm gonna rip your tongue out," Clint promised. His heart felt like it was going to pound right through his chest. He couldn't move with Steve on him. Not effectively. He yelled, frustration and rage building together. He twisted to flip Steve, but the mattress was too soft and Steve was too – _Steve_. Blood rushed in his ears.

"Wait," Steve said, as if he'd figured something out. "I know." He shifted his grip, putting both of Clint's hands in one of his – a hold that should have been easy to break, because Clint's wrists were too thick to hold in one hand. But no matter how he twisted at the break points where Steve's fingers met, the grip didn't ease. 

Steve shifted again, catching Clint's legs under his. With his free hand, Steve reached under Clint's head, fingers threading through his hair until they tightened, holding his head still. 

Clint bellowed, chest heaving as he tried unsuccessfully to throw Steve off. He couldn't even get Steve to _budge_. It was like being smothered. 

"I've got you," Steve murmured, right there against his cheek. "I've got you. Let it go, Clint. You can't get out of this. Let go."

Clint fought. He thought if he could dislocate his shoulder – except Steve was keeping him still. He couldn't even struggle hard enough to strain himself, not with Steve pinning him, sheltering him, keeping him still and close. 

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't _breathe_. His breathing hitched and, for a moment, he had to relax. He had to stop fighting. 

"There," Steve murmured.

As if he was some horny virgin teenager who needed soothing. "Fuck you!" Clint shouted, and struggled again, fighting against the impossible, and all the while Steve was whispering in his ear that it would be all right, that he was safe, that Steve had him. 

He couldn't keep fighting. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and his muscles were getting tired. He couldn't – he absolutely couldn't – and what was he supposed to do then? 

His breathing hitched again. He couldn't get a full breath. He gasped, "S-Steve," on the next attempt to breathe. 

Immediately, some of the weight lifted. Just enough. Only enough. The hand gripping his hair tightened, and heat lanced down into his gut, making him groan. Then Steve's hand slid loose, to the back of his neck, squeezing firmly. Clint shuddered, and Steve let go of his hands, moving instead to cup his face. 

He couldn't catch his breath, but he didn't complain when Steve caught his mouth. "Good," Steve said, pulling away only far enough for the word to escape. "Oh, so good." His hand moved between them, and Clint realized he was stripping off their clothes. 

Clint whimpered and shuddered. The hand on his neck tightened, as if Steve thought he might try to bolt again. "I won't," Clint promised. "I won't. Please." Please what – he didn't know. He couldn't think. He _needed_ , all that adrenaline pooling toward an entirely different desire. 

Steve pushed his legs up. Clint whimpered, squirming, wanting, and then he felt Steve's fingers rubbing at his hole and for just a moment he wanted to fight. Even as he growled, Steve's hand tightened on the back of his neck. 

"Be good," Steve said, his voice rumbling low. A finger probed and he clenched down. Steve pushed anyway. Clint’s breath caught as Steve slid slowly in, so big, and Clint arched away from it. Steve growled again and he stilled, but couldn't stop the noises that escaped. 

"Oh, God," Steve groaned. He spread the slick that Clint’s body was making around, pressing his forehead to Clint's. 

“It’s been,” Clint panted, “a long time.” Laura just wasn’t that big. 

“Yeah,” Steve said on what was almost a chuckle. “I can tell.” Another finger pushed in alongside the first, and Clint gasped, hitching his legs around Steve's waist. It was wonderful. It was too much. More than he'd taken in – he didn't know how long. Just more. His throat worked but no sound came out. He moved his legs along Steve’s sides, brought his hands down to push at Steve’s shoulders. Urging him closer or away, even he wasn’t sure. 

“Try and relax for me,” Steve said, still inching his fingers into Clint’s hole. Clint whined and tried to do as Steve asked, feeling knuckles stretch his rim. Steve pulled out just a little, giving Clint breathing space, thumb running over Clint’s perineum before pushing his fingers back in. 

Clint squirmed and Steve’s hand tightened on his neck again. He was going to take it. Steve wasn’t going to let him out of this. With the option of struggling stripped away, Clint gave in with a whine. He shuddered and Steve brushed lips over the shell of his ear, whispering soothing nonsense. 

It was good. It was so much, but it was good. Steve slid those two fingers in and out, again and again, loosening and teasing him. With each stroke he relaxed so he could take it better. 

Steve kissed him when he put a third finger in, capturing Clint's long moan in his mouth. Clint's hands fluttered, landing on Steve's shoulders, his arms, his waist. He wanted more and he wanted it to slow down and he wanted it faster and he wanted less. 

Steve's tongue licked across the seam of his lips and he opened willingly, crying out when Steve removed his fingers and put the head of his cock there, instead. 

The grip on his neck tightened again, making him moan, nearly making him sob as Steve pushed in, slowly, getting just the head in before he pulled out again, then repeating it with a little more, rocking in bit by bit, impossibly big but never driving in so far as to cause too much pain. Clint took it, breath hitching, linking his ankles around Steve’s hips to keep himself open.

Both of Steve's hands moved to Clint's waist, holding him still when Clint tried to get away – or get more – he wasn't sure. But the feeling of being held down, safe and taken, made him shudder. He opened his eyes – when had he closed them? – and watched Steve. 

Steve's look was of intense concentration, his blond hair hanging from his forehead, his gaze on where their bodies joined or maybe Clint's cock, he didn't know. 

"Good," Steve murmured. "Good."

"Fuck," Clint breathed, and tried to squirm again but couldn't against Steve's grip. It made more slick come down, and he threw his head back and just tried to ride it through. 

Steve was big, bigger than the three fingers he'd been prepared with, and when the slim knot pushed against him Clint cried out. "I can't – fuck – I can't–"

Steve kissed him again. "You want me to stop?"

"No," Clint said desperately. "Don't – don’t –"

Steve smiled, and it warmed his eyes. "Take a breath and relax, you can do that. I'm just gonna take it easy." 

And he did, rocking his knot against Clint's body until Clint's hole stopped squeezing shut every time he felt it. It was divine, the slow stretch of it, and then Steve pushed and didn't rock back, and Clint breathed as his body allowed the intrusion, flexing his hands until Steve caught them, interlacing their fingers and pinning his hands alongside his head. Still, Steve pushed in, even when Clint began to keen and Steve hushed him with more kisses. 

And then he was in, still sliding deeper, catching Clint's bottom lip and stealing the short, sharp gasps that were all Clint could manage because there was no room for air in his body with Steve inside him. 

At last, Steve stopped moving. "Shh," Steve murmured again, brushing Clint's hair back from his forehead. 

Clint closed his eyes, focused on the stretch, on the fullness, on the alienness of it after so long. He trembled, long fine shivers that worked their way down his body. Slowly, he adjusted. His breathing settled down. 

Steve nuzzled his temple and murmured, "Ready?"

"Oh, god," Clint groaned.

Steve chuckled against him and started thrusting. Slow, at first, only pulling out as far as he could. His knot hadn't swollen much yet, but still Steve didn't try and pull it out. Instead he fucked deeper, opening Clint up with long, powerful slides. 

When it started to swell, it was impossible to miss. Clint gasped, opening his eyes, legs scrabbling to keep Steve from going too far out, to keep it from stretching his hole painfully. 

But Steve wasn't going too far out. He was adjusting, moving, until the knot began to hit Clint's prostate, milking that bundle of nerves deep inside his body. 

"Shit," Clint breathed. "Shit!" He grabbed Steve's shoulders, digging his nails in, shuddering and curling up as Steve’s knees dug into the mattress to thrust deeper inside him. Steve's knot filled, stretching him more than he thought he could stretch, and firing millions of pleasure centers. He came on it, screaming into Steve's shoulder, knowing from the tension in Steve that he was coming, too. 

It hurt, god it was big and it hurt, but it was so good and he was high on endorphins, and every time either of them moved it sent another shattering pleasure/pain bolt through him, leaving him whimpering and weak. 

"Good, you did good," Steve crooned, scooping Clint up and rolling them so Clint was on top of his chest. They were still locked together, and would be for a little while. Steve propped up his legs and rubbed Clint's back. 

Clint shuddered, curling in where it was safe and warm. Steve's knot kept pressing. He scratched at Steve's chest, fingers curling and uncurling as his body tensed and relaxed around the stretch so deep inside him, sending more fissures of light up his spine. Steve wrapped him up in strong arms and blankets, hiding him from the world. A finger traced his hole, where it was stretched around Steve's cock. Clint whimpered. 

"I've got you," Steve murmured in answer. But the finger didn't stop tracing the stretch. He shivered with every path it took.

"Sadist," Clint whispered against Steve's chest.

He could feel as well as hear the chuckle that rumbled through. "I just like it. You don't?"

Clint couldn't exactly say that. He couldn't say much, though, especially when Steve tightened his abdomen muscles and shifted his cock inside Clint's body. Clint hid his face against Steve’s chest and gasped, breathing in Steve's particular smell. 

"Oh, god," Steve groaned. "You might just be the death of me."

**

Clint fell into an endorphin stupor before Steve's knot went down. Sometimes, Steve had read, omegas were injured during sex. Often enough that scientists thought it was possible that the endorphin stupor covered it. Of course, other scientists thought the endorphin stupor kept an omega from getting up and moving around, that the prone position increased the likelihood of pregnancy.

Either way, Steve was taking no chances. Once it was safe to pull out, he took a shower and gathered anything he thought he’d need: a wash rag, three water bottles – drank one and got them each another – and a couple of power bars. Then he settled down carefully next to Clint and pulled back the covers. He touched Clint first, waiting to see if that would wake him. When Clint only shuffled his face deeper into the pillows, Steve smiled. 

Did Clint sleep this deeply at home? Or was it a heat thing? He hoped Clint slept this deeply when he felt safe. 

He wiped away the slick and come – rather a lot of it – from Clink's ass, carefully examining the rag after each wipe for traces of blood. 

"I know my ass is great," Clint mumbled into the bed, "but what are you doing?"

He supposed Clint wasn't as asleep as all that. "Checking for damage."

Clint cracked one eye. "You'd have heard me screaming if you'd hurt me," he said blandly.

"Just being careful," Steve said, though now he felt silly. Still, he said the next with utter solemnity. "There was plenty of screaming to confuse me."

Clint pushed himself upright, grabbing a pillow and whacking Steve with it. Clint's blue eyes flashed with mischievousness. "You've got a huge damn knot, man! What did you think, I was gonna take that quietly?"

Steve caught the pillow and tossed it aside. "I thought maybe cute little girly gasps. You know – oh, oh, oh!"

Clint rolled to his back to find another pillow, and this time he didn't let go after he'd hit Steve with it. "Because I'm so fucking feminine?" he laughed.

"Well, you're so _small_ compared to me," Steve said, grabbing the pillow to pull it away and, when that failed, using it to pull Cilnt closer. He let his voice drop and leaned over Clint, half mimicking the way he'd pinned Clint down before. "And so tight," he nearly purred. 

Clint's eyes widened. He licked his lips. "It's, uh, been a while," he mumbled, gaze cutting away. 

Steve felt around for the water bottle, opened it, and slid his arm under Clint's neck and shoulders to lift him. "Drink," he said quietly.

Clint watched him as if he wasn't sure what to expect. He tried to take the water bottle, but Steve just held on, tipping it against his lips. He drank, pulling away slightly when he was done. 

Clint licked his lips and said, "I am not giving you a blowjob."

That hadn't occurred to Steve until now, but now that the image was there... "I'm sure I can find something as nice." He lowered Clint again, then put a hand on Clint's shoulder and rolled him to his side away from Steve. He lay down behind Clint, putting a hand on Clint's abdomen and pulling him flush. 

He was half hard again. Clint was chubby, too, he wasn't surprised to see. That's what heat did, after all. Clint's breathing went ragged as Steve thrust along the crease of Clint's ass.

"Steve," Clint said hesitantly. "I'm not sure I can..."

Steve licked the back of Clint's neck and felt the shiver that ran though him. "I bet you can," he murmured against Clint's shoulder. Again, Clint shivered. Steve reached between their bodies, sliding a finger into Clint's hole. A finger was no problem; it was already stretched. Still, Clint let out a small moan. Steve slid another finger in, rutting gently against Clint's body as he did so. Another little whimper from Clint, who bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. 

God, he felt good. Hot and getting wetter by the minute. Steve's fingers searched out the new slick, sliding as deep as he could into Clint to draw it down. Clint gave a broken, "A-ah," when Steve went knuckle-deep, twisting his fingers and pulling them out.

It made Steve harden almost instantly. 

He kissed the back of Clint's neck, licked the shell of his ear. "You have to tell me if you really need to stop," he murmured there. "The serum..."

"Jesus," Clint said brokenly. "You have no refractory period, do you?"

"I do." Steve slid a third finger it, and that made Clint stretch. Clint stiffened. Steve stopped, waiting. With a long exhale Clint relaxed and slid back on his fingers. "It's just not very long," Steve added, slowly pumping in and out of Clint's ass. 

"Wh-what, five minutes? Ten?" Clint asked. His fists were curling and uncurling in the sheets. 

"Yeah, something like that." He kissed Clint's neck again, withdrawing from his hole. Carefully, Steve lined himself up and, with a hand on Clint's abdomen to keep him from moving away, slid in. 

Clint's breath came short and quick, muscles tensing. 

"I've got you," Steve said absently, and as his cock slid in deeper he rolled Clint to his stomach, laying on top and easing farther inside Clint's body. Clint gave a helpless little whine that made Steve's knot start to throb. He captured Clint's hands again, lacing their fingers together, murmuring nonsense against the back of Clint's neck while he fucked him, slowly, rocking his hips until his knot slid home. He groaned, felt the answering tremble in Clint's muscles. He gave it only a moment before he started to move, wanting to feel the tight sheath of Clint's ass sliding along his cock. 

Clint's breathing sped up. Pain or pleasure or both, Steve had never gotten a satisfactory answer out of the omegas he'd slept with. It didn’t matter now, though. He felt his knot swell and pushed up, grabbing Clint's hips and pulling them up as well to drive deeper inside. Clint groaned, braced on his elbows, and didn't try to move as Steve fucked into him. 

There – god, there it was – and he slammed home into Clint and spent himself, pulsing and throbbing as his knot swelled hard, locking them together. When the world finally came back, Clint’s mouth was open and he was breathing shallowly, a crease between his eyebrows, his eyes screwed shut. Steve knew better than to move an omega too much with his knot inside them, but he still carefully arranged them so they were back on their sides, Clint spooned against Steve. 

Clint shivered. Steve held him close. Maybe it had been too soon, but from Clint's reaction, he didn't think so. "So good," he purred, cradling Clint, his cock still inside. "So good." 

**

"I'm not hungry," Clint protested, sitting naked in the armchair. He'd had a shower and was at least clean; he didn't have to worry about getting any smoodge on it. 

"That's the heat talking," Steve replied, ever the voice of reason. "I know you don't feel hungry, but you'll do better if you eat." 

"You do realize that, in practical years, I'm older than you, right?" Clint asked with great annoyance, pinning Steve with a stare.

"And you do realize that, in practical application, I would be willing to knot you so you can't get away and force-feed you, right?" Steve shot back.

Clint stared at him, then started to laugh. "I'd be so high I wouldn't be able to swallow!" he pointed out, but the frustrated mood was broken. He held out his hand for the butter and jelly sandwich Steve had made, winkling his nose. At least it wasn't a power bar or peanut butter. He didn't think he could really have kept either one down. But – "Butter and jelly?"

"I’ll have you know that was a delicacy at home,” Steve replied, eating his own power bar. "You need the calories."

Clint shrugged – that was true enough – and took a tentative bite.

Actually, it was pretty good. Not something he'd eat every day, but... He was surprised to realize he got halfway through it before restlessness had him setting it aside and pacing the room. "Think we could go out?" he asked, looking longingly through the window. There were people in the city, and the green, slightly claustrophobic jungle beyond that. 

"I think you're about to get needy again," Steve replied.

"Needy," Clint muttered. "I don't get _needy_. I get horny as fuck. There's a difference."

"You teach your kids to talk like that?" 

Clint turned and glared at Steve. "I teach my kids the difference between kid words and adult words. Are you really going to lecture me on parenting?"

Steve glanced at him, all blue eyes and sharp angles and easy smiles. "No." 

Clint rolled his eyes. He scrubbed a hand through his still-damp hair, then down the back of his skull where he squeezed his neck.

He heard Steve stand and walk up behind him, brushing his hand away and replacing it with Steve's larger one. "You know you do that whenever you're starting to burn up?"

Steve squeezed, and it sent a full shiver coursing down Clint's body. 

"It's how I knew to get you to let go," Steve added. His voice was low and warm, and his breath drifted tantalizingly across Clint's ear.

Clint let his eyes drift shut. "I'm sore," he mumbled, knowing that in another few minutes he'd be craving being filled so much that it wouldn't matter how sore he was. 

"Okay." Steve's hand slid around to his stomach, pulling him back against an even broader, stronger chest than his own. When Steve spoke, it was along Clint's neck. "I'll be careful." 

"But don't _tease_ ," Clint said sharply. "I don't like that." He'd nearly been driven to begging the last time Steve was "careful." It didn't feel good. 

"Promise," Steve answered. He stepped back, but his hand on Clint's stomach didn't loosen off. Clint went with him, one step, and then another, until they were at the bed. 

There was a pile of dirty sheets in the corner. Clint had insisted on changing them, even if they were only going to get sweaty and sex-covered again. Now there were clean sheets, and he looked forward to feeling them on his clean skin. 

Steve let him go to stretch across the bed, pulling open the drawer of the nightstand. Lube; Clint's body was struggling to keep up with the size of Steve's freakin' dick. Plus, more never hurt anything. 

Clint sighed with pleasure as he laid across the bed himself, wallowing in the feel of the sheets. It was like being at Tony's; eight million threadcount or something. 

He still missed the flannel sheets he and Laura put on the bed in the winter at home, though. 

"What's wrong?" Steve asked.

He glanced up, a little surprised Steve had noticed. "Nothing."

Steve only frowned. He rubbed his fingers together absently, lube shining on them. 

"Ah." Clint propped himself up on his hands and shrugged. "Missing Laura."

Steve looked thoughtful for a minute, then asked, "Want to call her?"

"What, now?" 

Steve nodded.

Clint scrambled for a reason not to. It just wasn't something they'd done. But, hell, they'd had phone sex when he'd been on long missions. They hadn't had phone sex while Clint was out of his mind with heat and being knotted...

Steve was still waiting. Clint licked his lips. "Sure," he said after a minute. "If she wants to." Except thinking of Laura was like an aphrodisiac on its own, and he was getting hard. He let his head drop back, reciting the number while Steve dialed on one of the burner phones. 

Steve pinned the phone between his shoulder and ear, leaving his hands free. He poured more lube on his fingers – he'd probably rubbed dry the initial stuff, Clint thought – and nudged one of Clint's knees up. 

"Laura, it's Steve," Steve said, sounding not at all like he was trailing his knuckles down the inside of Clint's thigh. "No, no, everything's fine. Yeah, he's in heat, but he's okay." Steve smiled warmly at Clint. His knuckles ran up Clint's sac, and Clint fell back, covering his face with his hands. They couldn't talk to Laura _first_? Steve was an ass.

"He's about to cycle again – minutes, really," Steve continued, "but he misses you. I said we should give you a call." Steve was quiet for a minute, and then he let the phone drop from his shoulder, catching it and handing it to Clint.

Clint took it. "Hey, baby." He closed his eyes, imagining for a moment he was in their bed, heat nearly run through. Laura's hands never felt as big or callused as Steve's hands, though.

"Hey," she said, her voice husky. "Steve's taking good care of you?"

He cracked an eye to look at Steve, who was watching him patiently. And fondling his balls. That part was impossible not to notice. "Yeah," Clint said, a little breathlessly. "wish you were here, though." He closed his eyes again. He couldn't keep watching Steve do that. Feeling it was hard enough. 

"Wait," Laura said, and the wistfulness was gone. "Is he taking care of you _now_?"

He didn't think she sounded annoyed or jealous, but it was hard to tell without a facial expression to go with it. "Not – not yet," he said. "But soon." Was 'not yet' even true? Steve bent to kiss the inside of his thigh, mouth trailing where knuckles had already gone. 

"How soon? As in, before this call is traced soon? The kids are at the neighbor's." He heard a door slam. 

She definitely didn't sound jealous. "Where are you?" he asked, instead of answering.

"In the house." Out of breath. She must have been running to get there. "Clint, answer me." And that was definitely an alpha voice. 

He shuddered. "Yes, that soon, if– if we want. I can wait." If she didn't want to hear. If she wanted him to put it off so they could talk. He wasn't sure how coherent he'd be, but he'd do his damnedest.

"Don't even think about hanging up this phone," she shot back. "How big is Captain America's dick?"

Clint laughed. "As big as my forearm."

Steve's eyebrows rose. He licked Clint's balls, making Clint catch his breath.

"No, seriously," Laura chided. "I heard that. What did he do?"

Clink had to swallow to speak. "He's – he's licking – _fuck me_ –"

"He's fucking you?"

As if he'd heard – and maybe he had – Steve slid a well lubricated finger into Clint's ass. It was tantalizing, spreading heat as his muscles relaxed around it. "No," Clint panted, "he's – yes, but–"

Her voice changed, became firmer, soothing, impossible to ignore. "Good, Clint. Put me on speakerphone."

Steve plucked the phone from him and hit the right button. Clint blinked. Had Steve actually heard that, or was the man telepathic, too? "Hello, Laura." 

"Steve."

Clint shuddered, cocooned in alpha. 

Steve smiled at Clint, looking wicked. "I'm not as big as his forearm." Then he bent, licking a stripe up Clint's cock.

Clint twitched and gasped. 

"I should hope not. You'll ruin him for everyone else," Laura answered. "Are you going to knot him? Before I have to get off the phone?"

Clint smirked. "You gonna get off, Laura?"

"Depends on how good you sound for me," Laura shot back. Then, "Steve?"

"If you want me to, certainly," Steve said. Another finger joined the first, just as lubed. Clint squirmed against it, the feeling of restlessness coming back. 

"On his stomach," Laura said. "Deep as you need to. Clint?"

"Fuck," he breathed, and barely had time to start to turn over before Steve just flipped him. 

"What do you see, Clint?" Laura asked.

"The – the pillows." He knelt on his hands and knees, feeling Steve's hands running over his flanks. 

"No," she said. "Close your eyes. What do you see?"

He did as she said, and knew what she wanted. She was there, intense and focused and reassuring. "You," he murmured. Steve's hands stroked his back, soothing out shivers or maybe putting them in, he wasn't sure. 

"Yes," Laura whispered. 

Steve's hand wrapped around his cock, sliding up and down, coaxing a harder reaction from him. The hand on his flank tightened at the sound of Laura's voice, then relaxed again. Clint whimpered.

Laura sighed with pleasure. 

"What do you want me to do?" Steve asked, voice a rumble. It made Clint whimper again, spiraling hard and fast into need. 

"Slide two fingers into him," Laura said breathlessly. "Clint, let me hear it."

He couldn't, he just wasn't loudly vocal, not like that–

The pads of Steve's fingers dragged over his hole, then slid into him, filling him suddenly. He gasped, and when that was all, Steve reached up and grabbed the back of his neck, squeezing. Clint whimpered and groaned. 

"What is it?" Laura asked him.

"He's – two – " The words were impossible to focus on.

Laura made an approving noise. It went straight to his groin, though he couldn't be reacting to her pheromones. Just her voice, and fucking Pavlov’s dogs.

Steve twisted his fingers, and Clint could _see_ Laura, and he let out a cry and dropped his head on his forearms, breathing hard. 

"Four minutes, Steve," Laura said. "Work him up."

Clint's mouth opened. He couldn't catch his breath. His eyes burned. A third finger slid into him, and he gave a helpless cry. 

"Good, that's good," Laura told him. "Steve?"

"Close," Steve grunted, and he removed his fingers to slide his cock in instead. 

"Fuck – fuck –" Clint nearly sobbed, hearing Laura groan and praise him and feeling Steve push inside, push his knot in already, soreness be damned because Laura wanted it. 

"Cover him," Laura said, her words sounding like they came from between clenched teeth. "Clint, kiss him."

Steve stretched over Clint, chest to back, driving his cock deeper in the process. Clint whined but turned his head, kissing awkwardly over his shoulder, his tongue sliding along Steve's mouth, inside it, the kiss sloppy and he didn't care while Steve fucked into him. 

"I want to hear it. Clint, I want to hear it, you make him knot."

He couldn't, couldn't possibly, how was he supposed to make Steve come faster? He rocked back onto Steve's cock, pushing a cry out of himself as if he'd had the air punched out of him. Deep, so deep, too deep and too thick, and he could feel Steve stretching him inside, hitting that point that was going to make him writhe with pleasure. He pushed back like he'd been born to do it, twisting his hips on Steve's cock until Steve was the one groaning, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back so he couldn't move anymore, so that Steve could pound into him hard and fast. 

And then Steve was coming, shouting, and Clint yelled with him because it was too much, it was all too much, and he could hear Laura telling him that was what she wanted and it was good, so good, and then his body convulsed around the knot inside him and he couldn't hear anything.

**

Steve spooned around Clint, who was warm and high in his arms. He nuzzled into the back of Clint's short hair – a little longer than normal, now that they were in Wakanda – smelling sex and sweat and Clint. 

Clint had already been on the verge of soreness. Their plan to go slow hadn't worked, with Laura urging him on. She hadn't known, of course. Steve had, but Clint's emotional desperation in his heat was too much to refuse. 

Clint whimpered, still riding the endorphin haze, and started to move. Steve grasped him quickly, keeping him from pulling on the knot still buried in him. "Easy," Steve murmured. "Be still."

Clint's eyes opened, unfocused. "Laura?"

The phone lay nearby, off now. Their seven minutes had long since elapsed. "She had to go. I've got you." 

Clint's eyes closed again, and he sank back against Steve bonelessly. 

Steve ran his hand down Clint's chest, feeling sparse hair and heavy muscle, lax now that he was sated. His semen had mostly hit the bed, and Steve had rolled them away from the wet spot. Clint would want to change the sheets again, but it would have to wait for them to unknot.

Which didn't seem to be happening. Steve thought of grannies and puppies and other sweet but non-sexual things. He _should_ have unknotted by now. Instead, the heat from Clint's body still throbbed around him, and his refractory period was coming to a fast end. He knew he was hard enough that he was still stimulating the endorphin glans inside Clint. Otherwise Clint would have been either falling asleep or coming to, and instead he was still in a twilight place. 

He rubbed a hand over Clint's chest again, then told himself firmly to stop. Grannies. Chickies. Lowing calves nudging their mother's udder. 

Clint sighed contentedly and rolled his head back toward Steve, burrowing into the pillow, exposing a strong neck. He was vulnerable, relaxed, putting himself in Steve's hands. 

Shit. Steve was getting harder. With a quiet groan he put his hand on Clint's abdomen to keep him still and started rocking. His skin tingled instantly. 

Clint let out a noise that wasn't really a contented one, though. He started to pull away, eyes opening into slits. 

"Shh," Steve soothed, hoping Clint would drop back into the endorphin haze. He lifted up on his elbow enough to nibble on the shell of Clint's ear, licking inside. Clint's mouth opened, his expression easing. The fingers that had started curling into the sheets relaxed trustingly. 

It sent a surge of possessiveness through Steve. He pressed a little deeper when he rocked, felt Clint let go and give in, that moment when Clint surrendered into his alpha. It pulled a drawn-out groan from Steve. He'd had other omegas submit, of course, but none that had been warriors. None that had every reason to keep their wits about them. None that had been trained until hyper-vigilance was simply a part of them. This was sweeter than the most willing omega for all of that. He found himself growling, low and possessive, and Clint rolled his head again, baring his throat. 

Steve licked the pulse point there, then stopped to suck a bruise into Clint's tanned skin. Still he rocked, gently but deeply, taking the pleasure Clint offered. He rolled Clint toward him slightly, just his shoulders, so he could reach Clint's face. He brushed a kiss along Clint's jaw, running his nose over muscles allowed to be quiescent for the moment. He felt more than heard Clint's breath catch. He kissed Clint, just a gentle press of lips against lips, then went back for more, dipping his tongue between parted lips, tasting the edge of teeth and toothpaste before he retreated. Then, again, catching a pleading little noise he doubted Clint was aware of, delving farther this time, sliding his tongue along Clint's, gently demanding more. 

Clint gave it to him willingly, opening his body without argument or resistance. Steve wanted more. He wrapped his arms around Clint's body and rolled to his back, digging his heels into the mattress to sit up against the pillows and headboard. 

Clint cried out, brokenly, as he sank that further bit onto Steve's cock.

"I know, oh god, I know," Steve panted, goosebumps rising along his flesh as his cock settled that much deeper. He bent his legs between Clint's, opening Clint and exposing him, spreading him so he'd take Steve.

Clint's head rested on Steve's shoulder. His breathing came in little hitches, his eyes closed, a seam between his brows. 

Steve cradled him carefully, aware of the gift he'd been given. "I know, I know," he repeated, catching the little hitches with his lips, distracting Clint with his tongue. 

It worked; Clint's breathing evened out again. Steve ran his hands down Clint's body and up, searching out the little spots that made him shiver and twitch. He didn't stop kissing Clint, though he eventually left Clint to breathe while he laid kisses on Clint's neck, instead. On strong tendons, the roughness of his windpipe bared to Steve, heavy trapezoid muscles. He ran his hands down Clint's body, to his soft cock, skimming over it carefully. He wrapped a hand loosely around it and, letting it rest in his grip, slid up and then down again, moving the skin without applying pressure that would be too rough, dry as he was. 

"Fuck, no," Clint gasped, and Steve stopped. He reached for the bottle of lube, though, opening the top and pouring more than he'd meant to in his hand. 

More never hurt anything.

"Give me your mouth," Steve said firmly, and wrapped his hand around Clint's cock again.

Clint whimpered, tipping his head back to kiss Steve. It was desperate this time, as Clint nipped at his lips, bringing a hand up and tightening his fingers in Steve's hair. _Instead of the sheets_ , Steve thought, and didn't bother trying to pull away. He didn't like having his hair pulled, but he loved the way Clint was squirming on him, drawing away from his hand and pushing back into it, as if Clint couldn't decide if he wanted to be jacked off or not. 

And of course, every squirm made him catch his breath as the knot deep inside him moved. Made Steve want to pound hard up into him and come again, but Steve wouldn't. He let Clint ride him instead, let Clint decide what hurt too much or felt just right, and when Steve couldn't stand it anymore he took control of the kiss, plundering Clint's mouth until Clint's head fell back and he stopped fighting. 

Steve stroked Clint's dick more firmly, setting up a rhythm that was still slow but inexorable. Clint broke the kiss to pant and Steve nibbled the shell of his ear, laving his tongue over Clint's throat, feeling the noises Clint kept to himself. 

"Steve – I can't –" he said, almost pleading. _Don't tease_ , he'd said earlier, seriously, and Steve hoped this didn't count because he wasn't meaning to tease.

"You can," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "I'm going to get you off, and I'm going to get off, and we're going to knot. It's going to happen." That couldn't be a tease, right? He checked that there was enough lube on his hand – there was – and kept sliding, stopping to palm Clint's balls, to drop lower and feel where Clint was stretched around his cock. Clint cried out at that as he always did, his skin pebbling, nipples going hard. Steve felt the skin, the impossible smoothness as muscles relaxed to allow him entry, but tightened inside every time he touched. 

God, it was a turn on. He kept one hand there, the other pulling Clint's leg open a little farther, sliding down the inside of his thigh, cupping his cock and balls. Clint’s cock was hard now, and Steve stroked it again, feeling the flared head and the slit now leaking precome. 

Clint dragged a breath inward, and he pressed on it again. Clint's back arched off his chest, and he turned quickly to catch Clint's earlobe in his teeth, dragging them down it before catching it again. 

"Steve–!" It was a shattered word, and Steve started thrusting again. Small, shallow, he reminded himself. He was already as deep as he could go, and the bed kept him from pulling out too far. But god, the tightness of Clint's body around him and the trembling in Clint's muscles was enough. And then Clint came, sobbing out with pain or pleasure or probably both, his come nearly non-existent as if he'd been pumped out. 

Steve thrust once more, digging his heels into the mattress and pushing up, pulling Clint's hips down on him. Clint cried again, and Steve could feel his knot swell, stretching the tight hole around him, pressing hard inside Clint's body. He wrapped his other arm around Clint's chest, keeping him close as he pumped his seed into Clint. 

**

"Steve," Clint said dryly, "I'm fine."

Steve thought he might even be right. He looked like himself for the first time in days. He was the steady presence Steve had grown used to, instead of an agitated, restless, or desperate omega in heat. 

None of which stopped Steve and his washcloth from approaching the mussed bed and the naked man lying there.

"No," Clint said, and when Steve was close enough he swung his leg up and put his foot on Steve's chest. 

Steve's eyebrows rose. "Did you need more subduing?" he asked, knowing the answer was no, but determined to get his way.

Clint only snorted. "I'm muscle sore, I won't deny it. And maybe a little raw." He grimaced. "But nothing's torn or bleeding. Stop being a mother hen." 

Steve fiddled with his rag. "I don't always know my own strength," he admitted at last.

Clint moved his foot and offered a reassuring smile. "I know exactly how strong you are. At least," he amended, "in this circumstance. I'm fine." 

With a sigh Steve tossed the washcloth to the foot of the bed and flopped down beside Clint. "So," he said, "you're clear?"

"Oh, yeah," Clint answered. "and with any luck, Nat'll smuggle me the right suppressants before my next heat." 

Steve nodded. "And if not..."

Clint reached over and patted Steve's dick.

"Hey!" Steve jumped, then started laughing. 

Clint grinned at him. "I have a plan B." Then he eyed Steve's dick. Limp as it was, Steve knew he was still well hung. "I'd have to give you an A," he paused thoughtfully, then added, "plus. Yup, definitely an A plus." 

"Thanks," Steve said dryly. Once upon a time such frank examination of his genitals might have made him blush, but the army had knocked that right out him. So instead, he reached over and patted Clint's dick in revenge. "I give you a C."

Clint punched him in the shoulder.

Steve laughed, rolling away from it as if it might actually have some effect. "Well," he said, standing, "if you're sure you're clear, shall we go see what everyone else has been up to for the last few days?"

Clint stretched. "Go ahead. I'm gonna call Laura and check in."

Steve nodded, unable to quite rid himself of the smile that lurked at the corners of his mouth. He knew Clint missed Laura more than he'd admit right now. He knew it, because he'd heard the need in the middle of Clint's heat, when he was laid bare and vulnerable. 

He couldn't say he missed that, though. He liked this Clint. 

Steve got dressed as Clint dialed, and opened the door as Laura picked up.

"Hey, baby," he heard Clint say as he headed down the hall. "Yeah, yeah, everything's fine. I miss you, too."


End file.
